


Slow Drown

by novelized



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: Bernie's never understood John, but at least he understands this.
Relationships: John Reid/Bernie Taupin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 45
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Slow Drown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



“I’m getting married,” Elton says, and Bernie, who was used to such grand declarations by now, used to pomp and circumstance that would filter down to nothing, smiles tightly and says, “Christ, Reg, but of course you are.”

He imagines they’ll wake up tomorrow and Elton will have forgotten all about it. Moved on to his next big fancy. Spontaneously purchase a yacht, maybe. Dress his boys up in sailor costumes and whisk them off to sea. Or something more reasonable: rent out the Louvre for an afternoon tea. Invite the Royal family along.

“I’m getting married,” Elton says again, the next morning. Eyes wide and clear. Last night’s high evened out and just a childlike wonder, now, just the vestige of determination in himself, in his decision. “You’ll be a groomsman, won’t you, Bern? You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Bernie says, and Elton fucking beams. 

If they make it down the aisle it’ll be an actual living miracle, Bernie thinks. It’s an easy promise to make at nine in the morning, dry-mouthed and foggy-brained, a headache pounding behind his temple. 

Two months later, though—unbelievably, there they are.

The day’s gorgeous, bright and sunny, a pleasant breeze blowing through. The church all done up, lavish decorations bussed in for the occasion from countries Bernie’s never even seen. Renate’s a vision, flower crown in her hair, and Elton—

Well. Elton’s marrying a woman. And smiling all the while.

There are loads of people there. Fred and Sheila, who’d been criticizing everything from the décor to the minister since she’d stepped out of the car, and Renate’s family, politely bemused, and Elton’s friends spanning decades and continents, and photographers en masse. And there’s John Reid.

Bernie’s dressed down—“wear whatever you want, Bernie, honest, come starkers for all I care, as long as you’re there,” Elton had said—but John’s as polished as ever, pressed suit and dark shades, his face perfectly complacent. Elton’s fiddling with the floral arrangements for the thousandth time when John arrives, slips through the sanctuary and into a small sitting room in the back, where Bernie’s got his hands tucked between his knees and wondering if he’d ought have prepared a speech. He’s done this twice, himself, but there’s no protocol for _this._ Elton has once again broken the mold wide open.

“Running behind, then?” John says, in lieu of a greeting, consulting his wristwatch. Like Bernie was responsible for timekeeping. Like he was the hired help.

“Hello John,” Bernie says back, stiffly. “A bit, yeah. You know Elton.”

“Do I,” John snorts, and goes to check himself in the mirror.

There is something bizarrely masochistic about inviting your ex to your wedding, Bernie thinks. But he had seen the bruising, back then. Had heard the aggrieved shouting, sometimes, the distinct crack of skin against skin. Sometimes from rooms away. He’s well aware that neither of them are strangers to pain.

“Wild, isn’t it,” Bernie says, watching John’s expression carefully. “All of this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Renate’s a beautiful, private woman. Very clean past. Great for his image. Might be the most clever thing he’s done in ages.”

As if this were a business deal. As if there weren’t real people involved.

“Sure,” Bernie says, irritated. “Only a bit unfortunate, then, that Elton happens to be—”

John turns sharply towards him, his eyebrows lifted high. “Mind what you say, Bernie. Can never be sure who’s listening.” 

They’re in a private room, tucked away in a massive old cathedral. There’s a crowd outside, but they’ve flown in security, the highest esteemed, the most expensive. John looks so smug. Best man, Elton had made him. _He’s good at that sort of thing,_ Elton had shrugged, a month ago, and Bernie’d been wondering ever since who’d actually decided. That’s that settled, then. Bernie’s been around since they were teenagers, from cramped quarters in Pinner, Bernie lulled to sleep by Reggie’s heavy, even breaths; the nights Reg had phoned at some absurd hour, drunk and soured after yet another fight with John—but John’s the manager. He manages. John’s the conductor of this ridiculous orchestration. John’s _good at that sort of thing._ Of course he is.

“Right,” Bernie says, and heads for the door. Thinks he’d rather endure endless questioning, _are these bows too big, Bernie, should we switch them out for smaller ones, d’you think—?_ than stay in this room another minute. “Mum’s the word. See you out there, then.”

But John’s not listening. He’s turned back to the mirror, straightening out his tie.

It wasn’t crooked to start with. With John, it never is.

* * *

There is a deluge of confetti and a cheer in the air that carries them all to the reception. The alcohol is free-flowing, of course, and the music is good, of _course_ , and Bernie’s got a pit in his stomach that won’t go away, long after they’d exchanged their vows. Not for lack of trying. The first four don’t do it, but he’s hopeful in draining the fifth that maybe this one will.

Elton finds him at his table, wraps his arms around him from behind, squeezes him tight. “Can you believe it, Bernie?” he says, with a lilt to his voice that makes Bernie think he’s matched him drink for drink. Loose-limbed and smiling. Happiest day of his life. “I’m _married._ I’m an honest man now. Imagine that.”

“Imagine,” Bernie agrees, and it’s not lost on him that John has disappeared.

Two shotglasses materialize and Elton pushes one into Bernie’s hand, lifts his own and says extravagantly, “To finding happiness where we least expect it,” and Bernie, having no other choice, raises his glass and tips it back. It burns on the way down. He immediately wants another.

“You are happy, Reg?” he asks, before he can stop himself. Elton blinks down at him. “You’re truly, honestly happy?”

Elton’s voice changes; his smile drops. “I’ve got someone that loves me,” he says, and he sounds so—painfully sincere. “Course I’m happy, Bern.” 

Across the room, someone clinks their crystal wine glass and the guests turn expectantly, searching for the newlyweds. Elton straightens and plasters his grin back on, easy as stage gear. The transformation is luminous. Bernie’s got no idea how he does it, after all this time.

But he can’t bring himself to watch.

He excuses himself discreetly, slips into the hall just as Elton goes to kiss his bride. There’s a line of men outside the loo, too young, Bernie thinks, and vaguely familiar, and there’s a sudden hush when he approaches, so he tips his chin down and keeps on. Thinks he hears one of them say, “Was he ever—” and cuts a corner, sharp, so he doesn’t have to hear the question finished. Passes by two closed doors, and a broom closet, left cracked, and then a flood of light leads him towards a room at the end of the hall. He’s not even consciously making the decision; he just goes. He hadn’t noticed til now that he’s not quite steady on his feet. 

The door’s cast open. It’s a dressing suite, simple enough, with floor-length mirrors and gaudy window curtains and John Reid on a tufted sofa with an expensive bottle of whisky in his lap.

“Oh,” Bernie says, stopping short in the doorway.

“Not having fun?” John intones, entirely unphased by his sudden appearance. He’s taken his jacket off but is otherwise in prime order: crisp white shirt and clipped tie, his leather shoes unscuffed. “Thought by now you’d be holding Elton’s hair back over the toilet.”

Bernie rolls his eyes and enters, kicks the door shut behind him. Drops into an armchair because the reprieve is nice, the quiet is nice, even if he’s got to share the same air as Reid. “That’s your job, isn’t it? Best man and all?”

“Trust me, I’ve done my fair share. Suppose we both get to pass that off now, hm?” John raises the bottle, just as Elton had done. A dozen different toasts, tonight, and all of them—

Complicated.

Elton is a very complicated person.

“To Renate,” John smirks, and Bernie pries the whisky from his grasp and takes a long, needed swig. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, after, and hands it back.

He’s never understood John, but at least he understands this.

They pass the bottle back and forth, something akin to companionable silence. There is a faint white residue on the table in front of them, but Bernie says nothing. Could’ve been recent. Could’ve been a pinch of courage, Elton pardoning himself after the ceremony, the way he’d pardon himself before shows, the way he’d pardoned himself in the middle of parties—he and John, once upon a time, locking themselves away, whetted voices and _loud_ , curious sounds Bernie’d never asked over—Elton never offered the information freely, and besides, a grown man could make his own decisions—

“Do you think he’s noticed we’re missing?” Bernie asks, finally. He’s aware of how slowly the words come out. How the room’s gone soft and hazy; not quite right.

John scoffs, so derisive, _so_ derisive. “Don’t think he’d notice an atomic bomb going off unless he paid someone to notice it for him.” 

Bernie grabs the whisky back. _I’d do anything for you,_ he’d told Elton. Anything, right. Sit back and let him stuff himself full of chemicals. Sit back and let him take a fist to the face. Sit back and let him marry a woman he could never actually—

He takes another drink, slops a little down his hand. “You,” he says, swallowing back anger, willing it towards John, because it’s easier, he thinks, easier than the alternative, “are a massive prick, do you know that? You have always been. Always.”

John sits placidly. He has maybe never been caught off guard in his life. It’s infuriating. “Look who’s grown a backbone,” he says, like he’s pleased. “Took you long enough.”

Bernie grits his teeth. “What’d he ever see in you, anyway?”

“I could show you,” John says, “if you want.”

That is—

Meant to get a rise out of him, Bernie thinks. Won’t let it work. Won’t let John win.

He stands up. John snatches his wrist.

“Bernie,” he tuts, quiet and calm, some self-satisfaction on his face, “Bernie, Bernie, you know it was never a secret, right? Elton and I both knew when you were listening; you were almost _always_ listening. He’d like to be loud for you, Bernie, always five times louder when you were in the house—”

Meant to get a rise.

“I wasn’t,” Bernie says foolishly, feels suckerpunched, feels suddenly too drunk. He wrenches his arm away from John. “I wasn’t _listening_ , I just _heard_ —”

“Not hard to stop hearing, though? Couldn’t have been that difficult to leave?”

Late nights on the sofa, Bernie palming himself under a throw blanket, sottish and distracted, almost, by the breathy keens from two doors down—

“He loved the idea that it’d get you hard,” John goes on, and begins to roll up his shirtsleeves, neat and steady-handed, his eyes never leaving Bernie’s face. “Never said it outright, but god, he’d be so desperate to be fucked whenever you were around.” 

Bernie swallows thickly. He’s afraid of the whisky coming back up. No one around to hold his hair, then. Hadn’t been in months.

“Want to see how he’d like it?” John asks, inching towards the edge of the sofa. Towards Bernie.

“Fuck off, Reid,” Bernie says.

But he doesn’t move.

“You know, we would’ve let you join.” John’s hand curling into Bernie’s jacket, slow, guiding him back down. He allows himself to sit. He doesn’t know what else to do. “If you’d ever asked. Elton would’ve let you do anything to him.” John’s voice low; an unwelcome knot in his stomach, and spoken warm against his ear. “But I think you knew that. I think you still know that.”

And then: John’s hand on his leg, ornate gold band around his pinky finger, probably worth millions, and his fingertips digging into the seam along Bernie’s thigh. “Elton likes it a little rough,” John tells him, and Bernie’s eyes snap shut, and he should shove him away, of course, should put an end to this right now, but he—he’s had too much to drink, and he’s a casual bystander to his best friend’s impending misery, and he wants to—wants to understand what he never actually has—

“Do _you_ like it rough, Bernie,” John murmurs, and.

Something inside of him snaps.

He is fumbling for the zipper on his trousers, frantic, and John’s easing onto his knees, crowding into the space between Bernie’s thighs, and he’s too old for drunken exploration, he thinks, should’ve gotten this out of his system years ago, and not with John, of all people, not like this, of all days, but then John wraps his lips around him, wet and practiced, and there’s some unbidden anger that makes Bernie rock his hips forward, searching for warmth or reprisal at the back of John’s throat.

John allows it.

Even encourages it, with the tilt of his neck.

It’s like that for a moment, stuttered breaths and frenzied pushing into John’s mouth, fingers grappling for purchase along his shoulders, not at all careful, until John gets a hand on his hip and pushes him back into the sofa, firmly, long strokes of his tongue, takes control of the pace, slows him down—

John’s the manager. He _manages._

It has never been like this. Bernie is biting back a groan when he looks up, for a moment, and catches sight of himself in one of the mirrors, trousers around his knees and John knelt between them, and wills away the awful idea of Elton ever knowing what he sees. He’s just gotten married. Elton will go home with his wife, tonight, and Bernie wonders if she’ll ever do what John is doing, if Elton will want it, if Elton could ever like it—

John takes him deeper, abruptly, and Bernie chokes on a gasp, gets a fistful of John’s tie and tugs, gives no warning that he’s about to come. He’s never been anything but a gentleman, before. John doesn’t pull off quickly enough to indicate that he minds. 

He’s no idea what to say when it’s over. He collapses back into the cushion. He shifts his pants back up, overheated and flushed, and presses his knuckles against his temples, his breath evening out slowly like the soft ebb of the tide. John stands up and grimaces. Goes to flatten his collar in the mirror. 

“Poor sod,” John says casually, and Bernie’s mouth feels extraordinarily dry. “Marrying a girl all because he can’t have you.” He meets Bernie’s gaze in the reflection and raises an insolent brow. “Shame you’re straight, hm?”

He has never understood John.

But now, he thinks, he understands Elton a little bit more.

He will never tell Elton what it cost.

“Go give the groom a kiss, Bernie,” John sighs, beginning to unroll his sleeves. As close to a dismissal as Bernie’s ever received. “He leaves for New Zealand tomorrow. A week there, and then a month back in Australia; Hong Kong after that, just a short stopover—”

“Not giving him time to go on his honeymoon, then?” Bernie says irritably, because it’s all too familiar, this, because he’s got to say something. Because he never has before.

John turns around to face him, studies him strangely. “Bernie,” he responds, as if he should know better, “it was _his_ request.” 

* * *

He does go to find Elton, after that. Checks himself in the hallway: shirt tucked in, belt done up. Still drunk, but careful. Elton’s got a crowd of admirers around him, like always, and Renate at his side. Spills a drink down Bernie’s back when he pulls him in for a hug.

“Bernie! I wondered where you’d got off to! Are you having fun?”

Bernie squeezes him back and doesn’t answer outright. He feels sick. “Are _you_ having fun?” he asks instead, and Elton laughs against his shoulder.

“I’ve got the most beautiful bride in the world, my best friend at my side, and—” He breaks off mid-thought, glances around. “I suppose John’s buggered off then, oh well, nevermind. I’m just glad _you’re_ still here. All a man could ask for. Go give a toast, will you, Bernie? Do that for me?”

Bernie’d do anything for Elton.

He would.

He clears his throat and raises his glass. Swallows down a lie, and begins to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy yuletide, theoldgods! I loved your prompts so much. Hope you enjoyed xx


End file.
